by Sarah Sundin
“If you wish to fight, Monsieur Guillory . . .” Jean-Auguste swept his arm eastward. “The Atlantic is not so wide.”
A smattering of chuckles circled the bakery.
Tess studied the faces. Perhaps she should follow Mary’s example and take notes, but she’d rather observe. What a fascinating group of people.
“Attentisme,” Madame Robillard said in a pleading voice. “That is the best policy. Attentisme.”
Tess took the word apart. Attentisme . . . attentive . . . waiting in expectation . . .
Professor Arnaud cleared his throat. “Attentisme is not enough. We have waited, and we’ve seen what the Nazis do. Life for most is not as good as it is for your sons, Madame Robillard. And waiting for the Allied invasion of France is not enough either. How long will it be? Another year? Two? Three? We must resist the Nazi regime.”
“We are an ocean away.” Jean-Auguste sighed and returned to his seat.
“Oui,” the professor said, “but we can continue to smuggle letters back and forth through Portugal, through Vichy France, and into occupied France. We can raise money to buy arms. We can arrange aid for spies and couriers. The Arnaud château in the Loire Valley straddles the border between Vichy and occupied France. My cousin’s caretaker runs messages to his brother on the Nazi-occupied side. He is very helpful.”
Tess frowned. Should he share information like that in public?
Madame Robillard twisted her hands together. “We must not make the Germans angry.”
“Do not be a fool.” Pierre shook a meaty fist. “The Germans must not make us angry.”
“Monsieur Guillory.” Yvette’s voice sliced through the tension. “Be respectful.”
Pierre wheeled toward Yvette and wagged a finger at her. “Since when have you turned? You are siding with a collaborator.”
Madame Robillard gasped. “Non! I am not a collaborator. I am only a mother who loves her sons.”
“I am not siding with her thinking,” Yvette said, her tone low and calm. “I am reminding you to be respectful.”
Tess held her breath as the two stared each other down. At last, Pierre gave a sharp nod and sat.
How strange. That was the first time Yvette had spoken tonight, and Henri hadn’t said a word. In the past, Tess had heard both spout streams of anti-Nazi rhetoric.
Just as Madame Robillard had said. Tess sneaked a glance at the bakery owner, who sent Tess a pointed look with a flick of her chin toward Yvette.
What was going on? What had changed for Yvette? And was it anything for Tess to trouble with?
4
Chesapeake Bay
Wednesday, August 12, 1942
By the rails on the main deck of the new light cruiser USS Cleveland, Dan scanned the skies with his binoculars. The familiar waters of Chesapeake Bay, the balmy weather, and the sounds of a crew hard at work failed to lift the heaviness on Dan’s heart. Regardless, attending this exercise was an excellent opportunity. “Thank you for bringing me here, sir.”
To his right, Rear Adm. Aloysius Howard peered through his own binoculars. “Yes. Well, I’m sorry about the Vincennes.”
A slug to the chest. On August 7, the Marines had invaded the tiny island of Guadalcanal in America’s first offensive campaign of the war. Two days later in the Battle of Savo Island, the Japanese had sunk the Australian heavy cruiser Canberra and three US heavy cruisers—the Astoria, the Quincy, and the Vincennes. Four massive warships and over a thousand men. Gone.
Dan cleared his throat. “Thank you, sir.” At least the admiral didn’t say, “Aren’t you glad you weren’t there?” Of all people, Admiral Howard knew Dan’s answer would be no. He should have been there when his ship was under attack and sinking, when his men were dying.
Admiral Howard lowered his binoculars, his white hair and blue eyes bright in the summer sunshine. “Today you’ll see firsthand why I put you in ASWU for a year.”
Dan lifted one eyebrow. Testing new fuzes for antiaircraft shells wouldn’t help battle subs.
Howard flapped his hand. “This has nothing to do with antisubmarine warfare, but it has everything to do with the direction of the US Navy—toward science and technology. The admiral of tomorrow needs more than combat experience. You’re on the right track to become one of America’s finest admirals.”
“Thank you, sir.” His chest felt lighter, bigger.
Howard tugged his dress white tunic over his round belly. “Something big is coming up, and you’ll be on board as an observer gathering data. You’ll be proud to be involved.”
Dan’s heartbeat picked up a notch. He’d rather serve as a line officer, but at least he’d be at sea.
“Now hear this,” a voice spoke over the loudspeaker. “The first drone failed. Stand ready for the second drone.”
Dan’s groan joined hundreds of others on the Cleveland. Radio-operated planes were supposed to simulate an attack on the cruiser so the crew could test shells equipped with the new fuzes.
The admiral shook his head. “Hope they get those drones to work. These fuzes are promising.”
“Good.” The waters of the Chesapeake stretched wide off Tangier Island, about a hundred miles south of Annapolis, perfect for a test. “In time, we’ll overcome the submarine threat, but aircraft . . .”
The admiral rested both forearms on the bulwark. “A small, speedy, evading target. Shells with contact fuzes have to hit the aircraft to explode, and timed fuzes require precise calculations.”
Dan recognized an examination question from his former Academy instructor. “But the proximity fuze sends out radio pulses. When a plane passes within seventy feet of the shell, it explodes. So does the plane.”
“In theory. But in practice?”
Dan had studied the paperwork, as the admiral knew he would. “In the January test, they found a 52 percent detonation rate. And in the April test with the improved battery, it went up to 70 percent. But this is the first test against a moving aircraft.”
“If they can get the drones—”
“Ahoy!” a talker yelled behind Dan. “Aircraft bearing two-seven-zero. Range seven-oh-double-oh.”
Dan whipped his binoculars straight abeam to port. He brought the plane into focus, coming in low as if on a torpedo-bombing run. Like at Pearl Harbor.
Now to see how the crew would perform. The Cleveland was on her shakedown cruise. The gunnery department was young and inexperienced, which made this a realistic combat test.
Even though no pilot manned the plane and no danger threatened the ship, Dan’s pulse raced. This sure beat sitting in his office in Boston.
The cruiser’s five 5-inch dual-mount guns cranked their ten barrels into position. Inside each gun compartment, a crew would be ramming projectiles and powder cases into the breach.
“Range five-oh-double-oh.”
“Now,” Dan whispered.
A thunderclap shook the deck as ten guns fired as one, stirring Dan’s blood. He never tired of the roar, the concussion, the smell of cordite. If only he could hear guns fired in actual battle instead of just in drills.
He refocused his binoculars on the target. The plane rocked once, twice, exploded.
His jaw flopped open as flaming bits spun down to the water. All around, sailors whooped and cheered. The radio-control operators said none of the drones had ever been shot down.
Dan turned to the admiral. “Did I just see that? Only ten shells.”
Howard held up one finger, his eyes ablaze. “Yes, you saw. Now do you see?”
Yes, he saw. Science would win this war. Science and technology and production. Civilian and military minds working together—just as they’d done on these VT proximity fuzes.
Admiral Howard clapped him on the back. “Six more months in Boston, then back to sea. Work hard, keep your nose to the grindstone.”
“That’s what I do, sir.” He’d seen the fruit of laziness in his father’s life.
“And avoid distractions, especially the feminine variety.”<
br />
“Always, sir.”
“I’m going up to the bridge to speak to Captain Burrough and the technological advisors. I’ll be back in a few minutes. We have more drone attacks coming.”
“Yes, sir.” Dan squinted at the morning sky. A dive-bombing simulation seemed most likely.
Something out of the blue. Unexpected. As dizzying as a feminine distraction.
His wallet burned in his pocket, and he glanced around. No officers to see his moment of weakness. He opened his wallet and unfolded a piece of paper, the sailboat he’d sketched in the Terrace Room.
On Sunday at Park Street Church, Quintessa—Tess—had slipped the paper back to him, laughter in her eyes and her mouth.
His sketch was stark black-and-white simplicity. She’d added color—a warm oak color for the hull with a jaunty stripe of red. And she’d drawn a little man in dress blues at the helm, his chest puffed out and his chin raised to the wind. She’d labeled the little man with an arrow and the words “Admiral Danny.”
Danny? No one had called him Danny since he was six years old. He’d told her that, and she’d giggled, saying she wasn’t surprised. Who would dare?
Who would dare indeed? No one but Tess Beaumont.
A smile worked its way up his face. With two words she’d managed to encourage him and tease him.
Why did he like it so much? Why did he like the gesture, the teasing, the thought? Why did her addition of color bring his drawing to life?
And why on earth did he keep it in his wallet?
He was letting himself be distracted. Yet he couldn’t bear to toss it into the Bay. He liked the drawing, and keeping it showed respect for Tess. He’d already hurt her feelings too much.
Dan returned the picture to hiding. Perhaps Tess wouldn’t distract him much longer. Maybe she’d be accepted into the WAVES. Maybe she’d pass officer training school. Then she’d be assigned somewhere stateside—New York, Washington, DC, San Diego. The chances she’d return to Boston were as low as the chances of shooting down an aircraft with a single shell.
However, what if the Navy didn’t take her? Or if she washed out? That would break her heart. And she’d stay in Boston.
Dan huffed out a breath and tucked his wallet in his pocket.
“Ahoy!” the talker called out. “Aircraft bearing three-five-five. Elevation seven-five.”
Dan swung his binoculars skyward. Yes, a dive-bombing simulation.
The gun barrels cranked to the vertical. High above, the drone aircraft weaved and dodged and started its descent.
In a few seconds, a mighty boom and roar resounded in Dan’s gut.
A few seconds more, and the drone jiggled, flipped onto its back, and cartwheeled to the water.
“Wow.”
Admiral Howard leaned over the wing of the bridge, beckoning to him.
“I see.” Dan tapped his temple. Boy, did he see.
He jogged up to the bridge. No more complaining about his duties at ASWU. Sure, he wanted the sea breeze in his face, but this type of scientific work was vital.
Up on the bridge, Admiral Howard greeted Dan with a grin. “Two in a row.”
“What do you mean, we’re out of drones?” the commanding officer, Capt. Edmund Burrough, barked into the telephone. “We’re supposed to conduct tests for two days straight.”
“We’re out?” Dan asked.
“They only have three, and the first malfunctioned.” The admiral’s grin spread. “We weren’t expected to shoot them all down before noon. We weren’t expected to shoot them down at all.”
“We surprised them, eh?” Satisfaction warmed him inside. “Now let’s surprise the Germans and the Japanese.”
“You see. You see.” Those blue eyes drilled into him. “Now, stay the course.”
Dan snapped his heels together. “Aye aye, sir.”
5
Boston
Tuesday, September 8, 1942
Tess studied herself in the mirror. Camel-colored suit and white blouse, chic matching hat, subtle makeup, simple gold jewelry, her curls rolled up at the nape of her neck. Smart and serious and polished. “Do I look like an officer?”
“I hope so. Then I’ll have the room to myself.” Yvette blew her a kiss, then returned to bustling around the bedroom.
“You won’t get a new roommate?”
“No. I would like some privacy.” She jammed her feet into black pumps and dashed out the door. “Au revoir! Good luck!”
“Au revoir.” She stuck one more bobby pin into her coiffure and frowned. When Tess arrived in Boston, Yvette had been the one who insisted she move into the apartment. Same when Lillian moved to town. Yvette wanted to lower her portion of the rent and also alleviate the housing shortage. Why did she suddenly want privacy?
Tess grabbed her brown handbag and the portfolio holding her documents, and she headed toward the El station at Charlestown’s City Square.
Why was Yvette leaving at nine o’clock for her job at the Boston Navy Yard? Although she was always in a hurry, she’d never been late. Until recently, when she and Henri began going away to Cape Cod every weekend.
Tess’s cheeks warmed as she walked down Monument Avenue under the basswood trees. Yvette went to bed earlier and overslept more often, and every Monday she made a cavalier statement about not getting much sleep on the weekends. Her morals!
But was something fishy going on?
What evidence did Tess have? Yvette said she was in love but didn’t act like it. She didn’t want a new roommate despite her perennial interest in saving money. She acted jumpy and thought someone was watching her. Yvette and Henri were less hotheaded than usual.
No crime. Not even a rumor of anything illegal.
Tess groaned. She needed to mind her own business and stop sniffing around for a mystery.
If only the WAVES would take her. The Navy would keep her too busy to engage in such nonsense.
A half hour later, Tess stepped off the El at North Station. Clutching her purse to her stomach, she headed down Causeway Street under the tracks for the El. The huge modern building for North Station and Boston Garden loomed on her left, and dozens of people crowded the sidewalk—businessmen and salesgirls and servicemen.
Maybe someday soon she’d be in uniform too. Please, Lord. Let me be useful for once.
An office building stood at the northeast corner of Boston Garden, a dozen stories tall. In the lobby she found the directory and the location of the Office of Naval Officer Procurement.
Her stomach did the jitterbug. An officer. In the Navy. Tess Beaumont?
She drew a deep breath and took the elevator. The Navy thought well enough of her to give her an appointment. Now to pass the aptitude test, the physical, and the interview.
The office teemed with young men and women, and Tess’s breath hitched. She joined the nearest line. When she reached the front, she handed the sailor the letter with her appointment.
He checked her name off a list. “Down that hall, ma’am. First door on your left.”
“Thank you.” She followed the directions to a silent room filled with desks. A sailor handed her a pack of papers and motioned her to a desk. “One hour, ma’am.”
The aptitude test. Tess glanced through—math, science, reading. She hadn’t taken many science courses at Miami University, so she struggled through that section, but the reading and math were a breeze. Tess enjoyed math far more than a girl should. She’d always kept that to herself, but today it came in handy.
After she finished the exam, she was sent down another hall to a waiting room. For the next hour, she made small talk with the other ladies as they came and went.
At last, a woman in a white nurse’s uniform and cap called for her.
Another hall and into a medical examination room. Tess smiled at the nurse. “Does this mean I passed the aptitude test?”
“Of course.” The nurse gave her a look as if she thought they might need to regrade that test. “If you hadn’t, they would h
ave sent you home.”
“Oh, thank you.” One step down, two more to go.
An hour of poking and prodding from head to toe. They counted her teeth, checked her vision and hearing, told her to dress, and sent her back to the waiting room.
Hurry and wait, lines and paperwork. The military way. She’d need to get used to it—or she hoped she’d have the opportunity to get used to it.
It was almost two o’clock, and hunger added to the jitterbugging in her belly, but she didn’t dare leave for lunch in case they called her name.
“Quintessa Beaumont.”
She plastered on a smile and followed the officer into a small room. Another officer stood behind a desk. Tess shook hands with both men, Lieutenant Reynolds and Lieutenant Pierce, each in their thirties.
The men waited for Tess to sit, then seated themselves. Lieutenant Reynolds flipped through a manila folder. Were they going to send her home . . . or interview her?
He looked up with deep-set dark eyes. “Why do you want to join the WAVES, Miss Beaumont?”
An interview! She grinned, then restrained herself to a more professional expression. War posters and patriotic slogans came to mind, but Tess latched on to her own words. “I have a choice, Lieutenant. I can continue living for myself, or I can live for something bigger—for my country and freedom. I want to do everything I can to end this war as quickly as possible, and I’m not doing that in my current job.”
“Why the WAVES?”
She hadn’t been specific enough. Tess squeezed her purse in her lap. “I just knew, the moment I read about President Roosevelt signing the bill. And I’ve been reading the news, how Lt. Cdr. Mildred McAfee has been sworn in as the director and how the first class of officers began training two weeks ago. I want to be a part of it.”
Their expressions hadn’t changed. She needed more. “Plus, three of my friends are in the Navy, all Annapolis graduates. I’ve heard what they’ve gone through. Two of them were on the USS Atwood when it was sunk, and one was injured in battle—he’s now been discharged. If only I could do something to help my friends—help all the men—come home safely.”